


And in your bones you find it

by CardboardMoose



Series: The works of our hands [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardboardMoose/pseuds/CardboardMoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Equius is afraid. Gamzee is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And in your bones you find it

Gamzee is washing his brushes. Equius watches the paint run down the surface of the localised ablution vessel, white and charcoal melding together in a mess of grey, disappearing with the stream of water. Though consistently slovenly in all other aspects of his life, Gamzee takes better care of his paints and brushes than he does of himself (a situation that worries Equius a little, but he will fill that gap, would not hesitate to do so) and so it is with considerable care that he rinses them, setting them to one side to dry.

He smiles when he turns to see Equius standing in the doorway, worried to move lest he tread on a horn or - worse - in a pie.

"You don't got to look so nervous, babe. I'm not gonna motherfucking bite you."

Equius allows himself a tiny smile at that, but there's a knot of tension in his stomach that hasn't abated. He can feel the freshly dry paint on his face, the presence of it making him more aware than ever of his expressions, the tiny movements of muscle and skin. It is a constant reminder of what he has gained, this beautiful, precious thing, but - like the paint, cracking and falling away, like everything in his strong, strong hands - it feels horribly fragile.

Gamzee is looking at him, head on one side. He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from Equius' face.

"Babe?" he murmurs, resting his hand under Equius' chin and meeting his eyes.

"I...I apologise, highblood. I must confess a certain...trepidation as to the consequences of our making so...bold a statement. The others..."

"That's what's got you all motherfucking worried? What they think?" Gamzee shakes his head and pulls Equius through the doorway, across the room, down onto a pile of Faygo bottles and empty pie tins. A horn honks somewhere beneath them as Equius settles between his legs, back to chest, Gamzee's arms around his torso, fingers knotting over the symbol on his chest.

"They ain't got the right," he says, softly. "They're my motherfucking brothers and I'm chill with them but they ain't got the right to be judging this. This is a fucking miracle and that's just how it is, if they can't deal with having something this fucking beautiful up in their faces then that's their motherfucking strife, not ours."

And suddenly Equius realises the truth of the matter. He doesn't care. He really doesn't. He could walk out of the room and have ten trolls laugh and spit in his face and it wouldn't matter because he has this. He has this strange, wonderful troll who holds him and owns him and does not fear him, and if Gamzee wishes it he will wear his marks for the rest of his days and nothing will stop him.

Together, they rise to stand before the door, and Gamzee reaches across the scant inches between them, entwining his long fingers with Equius'. Equius knows he cannot tighten the hold to convey the words in his throat for fear of snapping bone like dry wood, tendons like thread, but he knows that Gamzee knows this, and that is enough.

He opens the door.


End file.
